Alliance with the Devil
by Amellys
Summary: Percy's Aunt Muriel refuses to list him in her will unless he marries a pureblood within three months. And how does Pansy Parkinson fit in the picture? Well, she sat next to Percy Weasley at a party once...


Disclaimer: Characters belong to JKR... durr. Wish they were mine, but they are not :(

* * *

'_So what if I was her favorite nephew?'_ Percy thought angrily as he stormed out of her ancient, stony mansion. He was his own person! His pace quickened, so he was almost running towards the apparition point. She had no fucking right to tell him what to do or how to live his life. And giving him stupid ultimatums? What was he, five? Percy Weasley was a grown man; a man, who would not let an old batty woman dictate his life. He came to a halt. His survival instincts took over; if he was to apparate successfully, he needed to calm down. That vicious old bitch was definitely not worth his limbs or the embarrassment that would come from splicing himself. He breathed in deeply to calm himself, the chilly evening air filling his lungs to the fullest. And with a 'pop', he was gone.

His early departure from Aunt Muriel's made it so that he was right on time for the New Year's Ministry party that was thrown by the aurors' department this year. Percy's mind was still on the meeting that just took place as he briskly walked up the long staircase that led to the entrance doors of he Ministry building. He paused briefly to shake the snowflakes out of his curly hair and from his expensive velvet cloak. He blatantly ignored the few wizards who were smoking outside and tipped their hats toward him in greeting, and entered the Ministry.

His first thought upon entering was to find the bar and have a good big glass of Firewhiskey to calm his nerves. And that he did, he made his way straight up to the bar where the barman, a short plump wizard, served him what his heart desired. Percy gulped down the whiskey, and then turned around on the barstool and leaned on his elbows rested on the bar. Another swig from the glass of the fiery liquid, which was refilling itself, and his Weasley temper subsided enough for him to think clearly.

As he saw it, he had a few options to deal with the situation at hand. He could either ignore his aunt's request and hope that she will leave him all her worldly possessions and keep funding him, an unlikely occurrence, or that he will pretend that he is going along with what she told him to do, or he could just obey her. He automatically obliterated the first option; he was not a man who would leave such a thing up to chance. That left the last two options. He could either pretend or be for real. Another sip from his glass of firewhiskey did not help him resolve the issue. Neither did gulping it down.

"Verte," Percy's thought process was disrupted by the loud, shrill voice of the witch who collapsed onto the stool next to him.

"Ms. Parkinson, I am sorry, but I don't think that's legal," the barman objected dimly.

"Why do you care about what's legal and what's not?" she frowned at him. "I want a Verte. Now."

"Ms. Parkinson, I cannot serve you that," the barman repeated somewhat more forcefully.

"I want it," the witch demanded, growing louder.

Percy sighed. Of course, he would not be able to think, not at least until she got what she wanted so she would shut up. The witch next to him was the infamous Pansy Parkinson, the Tart, the Home-Wrecker, and the Whore, the Slime of their society. If all the bad qualities of the society could be personified, she was that personification. Percy knew her as much as any other civilized man at the Ministry knew her. She was the one who would drink as if there was no tomorrow, the one who would never sleep in her own bed, the one whose disregard for public opinion made her the ultimate enemy of every housewife, mother and everything 'good' within the society. But she never crossed the line, oh, they were watching, but she never got arrested, never did anything more than breaking every norm ever set for the behavior of a young witch in today's world. Percy scorned women like her. To be factually correct, he doubted that there were any women like her; so, he simply scorned her.

And now, this plague was here, sitting next to him, making his life more miserable by her whining.

"You don't understand," she continued waging her war against the barman. "If you don't give it to me, Bart, your boss might find out little something, something about his daughter, and well…"

At those words, Bart went pallid white.

"You wouldn't dare, bitch," he whispered.

"Oh, really, Bart? I wouldn't dare?" she smiled devilishly. "And who is going to stop me? You?" she chuckled evilly.

The man shrug his shoulders, and with a look filled with defiance and hate poured her the drink.

"There, you drunk slut, now, leave me alone," he forced the glass into her hand and turned away to either hide his fear and dismay or to serve other customers.

The trait Pansy Parkinson just displayed was another typical characteristic of what good girls did not do- threatening someone to give one a drink is a bit extreme. And Pansy was very, very good at threatening. No one knew how she found out all those dirty secrets about everyone high up in the society, but she did, and she was more than effective at using them. It made her even more hated, but powerful all the same.

The disruption being no longer there, Percy returned to his grim contemplations. If he decided to go with his first option, to gain the inheritance by false pretences, he would need a partner in crime; someone crooked enough to go with the plan and smart enough as not to spoil it. His second option did not seem as plausible as the first one; it required emotional commitment and love, and all that mushy wishy-washy stuff he did not really want to get involved with at this time. The first option was simple, logical and profitable.

Involuntarily, his gaze slipped down to the witch sitting next to him. She was scrutinizing the ballroom angrily, as if looking for someone or something that would be very sorry if she found them. Yet, despite the frown plastered on her face, she striked him as stunningly beautiful. Of course, Pansy Parkinson was known for her looks, but Percy never looked at her that way before. Tonight, though, he was, and what he saw surprised him. She was a vision in red, and he doubted that any other color would be more fitting than the metallic red of the tight fitting dress she was wearing. It was a short simple dress that barely reached the top of her knees. The spaghetti straps that held it up encircled her swan-like neck, and her raven hair fell past her shoulders in velvety cascades. She had perfect eyebrows, and her cherry lips were quite lovely, even in a pout. Suddenly, Percy could not remember why he thought her less than him.

He shook his head, and took off his glasses to clean them. He did not dare to look at her again for the fear that she would think that he was starring. But what he saw before did not leave him at rest. Surely, it must have been the firewhiskey getting to his head.

That night, after he left the party, Percy Weasley's thoughts entered a realm with which he was not too comfortable.

* * *

On the New Year's Day, Pansy Parkinson woke up with a splitting headache. Holding her hand to her forehead she barely made it to the kitchen where she was sure she had some hangover potion stored for emergency situations like this. She uncorked the green bottle with her teeth, not really caring about where the cork would end up as she spat it out and took a big gulp of the bitter liquid. It took some effect almost immediately, leaving her wondering how much she really drunk last night. She did not think she drunk that much, basing her assumption in the logical pretext that she was always careful to not get completely wasted. Tipsy, yes, completely hammered, no. She concluded that the Vertes she drunk must have been stronger than she remembered them to be. By the time she was done ruminating last evening, the potion took its full effect.

She stood up, checked the clock, and decided that she would, in fact, go to work today. Officially, she had taken a holiday since it was New Year's Day, but there were a few things at work that she did not get to quite finish, and she had no other plans for today.

And so, before 10 o'clock on the New Year's Day, Pansy Parkinson was sitting in her office in Diagon Alley, sorting through her mail. She had a quite few requests for her designs that accumulated over the Christmas week which was simply wonderful for business, and some spam mail. There were a few government envelopes that she decided that she would open later, and a card from a friend in France who was apparently getting married, and thus requesting a wedding dress design.

Pansy cuffed up the sleeves of her blouse, took of her shoes, made herself some chamomile tea before she divided into the pile of work that awaited her. She designed a few of the special requests that were sitting on her desk since November, and was just in middle of creating a model for her friend's wedding dress when she heard a knock, or rather bang, on the front door of her store. It startled her, causing her to jump and spill her hour-cold tea all over her designs and herself.

"Shit!" she swore out loud as a day of work laid ruined on her desk.

The banging did not cease just because she spilled tea all over her work and herself. Furious with whoever wanted to get in this badly, Pansy stomped to the entrance and unlocked the door with her wand.

"What!" she demanded loudly from the person who was standing in front of her in the snowstorm.

"Ms. Parkinson," she was greeted in a formal tone with an equally formal tipping of the hat.

"What do you want?" she asked in the same angry manner.

"May I come in?" the man, whose face was covered by his cloak, inquired.

"No. What do you want?"

"Ms. Parkinson, I informed you of the intentions of my visit in my letter."

"What letter?"

"The letter that I sent you last night."

"I did not get a letter."

"I am sure you did, Ms. Parkinson. My owl has never failed me."

"It must have this time."

"May I come in?"

"No."

"There is a snowstorm raging outside, Ms. Parkinson."

"I did not ask you to be here."

"May I please come in? I have a matter of great importance to discuss with you."

"What matter of great importance?"

"We shall discuss it if you let me in."

"I have no intention of doing so."

"It concerns gold."

"How much gold?"

"Ms. Parkinson, may I come in?"

"You are insufferable, Mr.…?" Pansy finally moved out of the way, letting the wet and cold man pass by and follow her into her office.

"Weasley," was the stern reply muffed by his cloak.

Pansy spun on her heel. She did not fall _that_ low yet.

"What are you doing here? Get out!" she spat at the man who just made himself comfortable in the chair in front of her desk and was drying his cloak with his wand.

"Ms. Parkinson, you are leading me to believe that you are much dimmer than I originally thought you were," he paused, giving her a look filled with arrogance. "I already told you that I am here to outline a proposition concerning certain money matters for you. Now, I recommend that you sit down and listen to my proposal."

"Who are you to tell me what to do?"

"Ms. Parkinson, there is no reason for theatrics," he said coldly. "Now, _sit_."

Pansy was not sure if he was using a charm on her or if it was the mere authority in his tone that made her follow his instructions, but she sat down in her chair and watched him intently from across the desk.

"What is the proposal, Mr. Weasley?" Pansy questioned impatiently, fighting her hardest to keep the illusion of higher ground. "I do not have all the day to sit around and listen to your voice…"

"No reason to be impetuous," the Weasel said scornfully, folding his hands neatly in his lap. "The proposition is rather simple, really; I want you to pretend to be my girlfriend, fiancé and wife. In that order."

To Pansy, that was a laughable statement. And laugh she did.

"Your…haha… what? No…haha… way…" she could barely speak through her laughter. The man across the desk watched her laugh, and her laughter slowly faded as she realized that he was serious, though she did try to fake her amusement a little bit more.

"You can't be serious," she declared at the end of her guffaw.

"But I am, Ms. Parkinson."

"Why?"

"I will pay you."

"No, Mr. Weasley, why do you want me to pretend to be your… girlfriend?"

"Nothing you need to worry about, Ms. Parkinson. Let's just say that it's to please someone." It seemed that he was sincere, but then added with a significant amount of sarcasm: "Or maybe I fell in love with you."

Disregarding his last statement, Pansy studied his face closely. As far as she could tell, he was, indeed, sincere. But she was not stupid enough to buy his reason for this proposition. The wheels in her head started turning, as she tried to come up with a plausible reason for this turn of events.

"Ms. Parkinson, I assure you that my reasons should be none of your concern," the Weasel reinforced, as if he knew what was going on in her head.

"I think otherwise, Mr. Weasley," she retorted. "I think that your reasons should be very much my concern. In fact, I am sure that I am not going to agree to your deal unless you inform me of your reasons." To emphasize her point, she leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms on her chest.

"You don't have that lever to press on, Ms. Parkinson," the Weasel said, chuckling. "You should feel honored that I proposed you this offer. There are many fish in the sea, and if I wanted, I could get any other woman to agree to this."

"Well, why don't you do that, Mr. Weasley?" Pansy asked without thinking.

"I shall, once you give me your final answer."

"How are you going to profit from this deal, Mr. Weasley?" Pansy pressed on. "Don't think me a fool enough to believe that you are not going to reap any fruit from this."

"I do not think you a fool, Ms. Parkinson," the Weasel replied with an all-knowing (and very annoying) smile. "But my personal interests shall remain my _personal _interests."

"Wait, you said money, didn't you?" Pansy leaned forward as something new occurred to her. "Lots of money, in fact."

"Yes?"

"Well, I think I might know what it is, Mr. Weasley," Pansy put on her most innocent, yet victorious smile.

"You cannot know what it is, Ms. Parkinson." The Weasel said with a disproportionate amount of self-confidence.

"Oh, but I beg to differ, Mr. Weasley," she continued. "Is it maybe, that you are in debt and you have no means to pay it off?"

He froze for a second, and Pansy knew that she hit him where it hurt. 'Score,' she thought briefly before resuming her efforts.

"And maybe the person on whose money you were relying is refusing to give it to you?"

"How?" he was completely stunned.

"I have my sources, Mr. Weasley," Pansy chuckled. "So, now, why don't you tell me the details so we can come with a plan that suits us both?"

An hour later, Pansy heard the story of how Muriel Prewett cast out her favorite nephew under the precondition that he shall not inherit any of her wealth (and my! was she wealthy), unless he gets married within the next six months. The Weasel specified the special requests, such as marrying a pureblood, or having a baby within a year after marriage. The list of qualifications was quite long and neither of them went over everything, but he assured her that she fit all of Muriel's requests.

"So, what shall be your final answer?" the Weasel inquired towards the end of their negotiation.

"I will give it a try," in the end, Pansy agreed to the proposal because of the benefits there were for her. She yearned to bear a respectable name yet again, and well, the promised money would restore the Parkinson bank account to what it used to be. Sure, she said 'yes' to the Weasel, but desperate times call for desperate measures, right?

"I am glad we reached an agreement," he said, taking his leave. "I will owl you the specifics of our next meeting by Monday."

"That would be excellent," she replied.

"Goodbye." And with that, he left her to ponder exactly what she has gotten herself into this time.

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Thanks for reading!

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